


I'm a Walking Travesty (But I'm Smiling at Everything)

by iwannafucktheguitarist



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, I'm so sorry, M/M, Suicide, guys this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 19:56:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5598823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwannafucktheguitarist/pseuds/iwannafucktheguitarist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael kills himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm a Walking Travesty (But I'm Smiling at Everything)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. I'm so so so so so so sorry for this. I'd like to apologize to everyone who reads this. I cried while writing this. But this is something that I'm really afraid of, so I wrote it. Also, the note is based off of a note that I wrote when I was 15 prior to a suicide attempt. I'm sorry for writing this. Please don't hate me.

When you get home, it’s dark all throughout the house. It’s only seven PM; Michael shouldn’t be asleep yet. When you get to your bedroom you see a piece of paper on your pillow, addressed to you. It looks like a letter. When you unfold it and begin to read, you realize what it is. You feel the blood draining from your face as you read it.

_ Y/N: _

_ If you’re reading this, I’ve committed suicide. I’m so sorry to leave you like this, and you’re actually the reason I didn’t do this a long time ago. The thought of you always made me strong enough to make it through another day. I love you so much, and there’s nothing you could have done to stop this. This isn’t your fault. I hate to leave you like this without saying good-bye, but I guess this note is kind of my good-bye anyway. _

_ I don’t think any reason I could give you would be enough, so I’m not going to go into a bunch of details. Just know that there’s nothing you could have done to stop this. I’m sorry. I love you so much, okay? I know you’ll make it through this. Your life will go on without me. I’m not that important; you’ll find someone else. I know you’ll hurt over this for a little while, but you’ll get over it; you’re strong. _

_ I love you, and I’m sorry. _

_ Michael _

You stare at the paper in shock for a bit before you go running through the house, shouting his name, frantically trying to find him, hoping you’re not too late. You don’t know how long ago he wrote the note; how long it’s been since he did whatever he did. You even pray, though you’re unsure if that will help at all. You find him in the hall bathroom, an empty bottle of pills lying next to him, his body scarily still. You roll him over onto his back and check for a pulse, and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s faint, but he’s still alive. Then the tears really begin to fall.

You immediately call an ambulance, and sit on the floor by his unmoving body, hoping the paramedics arrive soon. You brush his hair back out of his face and look at him. He’s alive; you keep telling yourself that. He’s so still and pale that you doubt it a bit, despite the evidence to the contrary. You keep your fingers on his pulse point on his wrist, comforting yourself with the fact that, while faint, his heartbeat is still there, and you cry. The ambulance arrives a few minutes later.

You ride along to the hospital, sitting next to him and holding his hand, though you know he’s unconscious and unaware of what’s going on. The whole ride to the hospital, you just sit there, tears dripping down your face, wondering why you didn’t see that he was hurting like this. You’re the worst partner ever, you think. How could you not have noticed that your fucking boyfriend was suicidal?! You feel like a horrible person. You should have paid more attention, should have noticed that there was something wrong, should have helped him.

If he makes it through this, you make a silent vow that you’ll never let him get this low again. If. The thought makes you begin to hyperventilate. He may not live. He may die. You force yourself to breathe slowly. You tell yourself that he’ll make it, because the alternative is too terrifying to consider.

When you arrive at the hospital, you’re made to wait in the waiting room. You call his mum while you’re waiting. “Karen, it’s Y/N,” you say when she picks up. “Michael...he, uh…” you start crying, take a few deep breaths, then continue. “He tried to kill himself. I’m at the hospital in the waiting room. I don’t know if…” you take another deep breath. “I’m not sure he’s going to be okay.” You start crying again, and Karen sounds teary too when she says she’ll be there soon.

You then text the other members of the band, simply telling them to meet you there ASAP, and that you’ll explain everything when they get there. You pace back and forth, thoughts of what could be happening going through your head, worrying about whether he’s going to be okay or not.

Karen arrives a few minutes later, and she just goes up to you and wordlessly hugs you. You stand there, crying together for a bit, then you both sit down and you explain what happened, and she listens, tears running down her face.

Calum is the next to arrive, shortly followed by Luke, then Ashton. “What’s going on? Where’s Michael?” Calum asks.

“He, um...he overdosed. We don’t know...I don’t know anything yet. I got home and I found a note on my pillow, and I found him and he was so pale and still and I was so scared and I don’t know if he’s going to make it or not and I don’t know why he would do this, why would he want to leave me like this?” You start to cry again, and the three boys all pull you into a hug and you cry together, just standing there, holding each other.

After what seems like an eternity, a doctor comes out and sees all of you standing there. You look over at the doctor. He looks at you grimly and says, “We did everything we could. We were too late. I’m sorry for your loss.” You stare at him numbly, shocked. No. No, this can’t be happening. Michael can’t be...he just can’t. This has to be some sick joke.

“Can I...can I see him? I just...need to convince myself this is real. I can’t...can’t wrap my head around this,” you say, looking inquiringly at the doctor.

“Okay. Follow me,” the doctor tells you, and you walk behind him, still halfway convinced this is a joke. “He’s in here,” the doctor says, opening a door, and you see a table with a body on it, covered in a white sheet.

You choke back a sob. You slowly walk toward the table, knowing what you’re going to see, but just needing to convince yourself this is really happening. Your hands are shaking as you pull the sheet down away from his face. He’s so pale. That’s the first thing you notice. His bright red hair just makes his skin look even paler. His eyes are closed, and he’s so still. It’s silent in the room, such a big contrast to how it usually is in a room with him. He’s not really here. It’s just a shell. You run your fingers through his hair, tears flowing freely down your face. “Why did you do this, Michael?” you ask him quietly, knowing he can’t answer. “Why would you leave me like this? I love you, dammit!” You look down at him again. “I love you,” you whisper. You caress his face gently, staring at him, feeling so empty. He’s so cold. You lean down and press a kiss to his pale lips, the skin cold under your mouth, tears dripping onto his face as you pull back and look at him again. “Why did you leave me?” you whisper, sinking to the ground next to his body. “Why didn’t you say something? I could have helped you, goddammit. If you’d just told me you felt like this, I could have stopped you. Why did you leave me? I love you, Michael. I love you.”

You leave the hospital and walk home. It’s a fairly long walk, but you don’t want to talk to anyone right now. You enter your house, and it just feels so empty, too big without Michael in it. You go up to your room and open the closet, putting on one of his shirts and curling up on your bed. You can’t believe he’s gone. It just doesn’t feel real right now, even though you saw with your own eyes that he was gone, you still have trouble believing it. You inhale his scent from the shirt, crying until you physically can’t cry anymore. You pull the blankets over your head and curl up in a ball, drifting off to sleep.

When you wake up the next afternoon, you feel cold. The house just feels so empty, and you wander around aimlessly, everything reminding you of Michael. You curl up on the sofa draped in a fleece throw, staring at the wall blankly. You hear a knock on your door, but you ignore it. They don’t go away, though, so after a while you just yell, “It’s unlocked!” and you hear footsteps approaching. You look up to see Ashton standing in front of you.

“Is it really a good idea to leave your front door unlocked?” he asks you, sitting down beside you.

“Why not? It’s not like it matters anymore. Who knows, maybe someone will come in here and kill me in my sleep.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Ashton tells you.

“Why are you here?” you ask him bluntly. “Can’t you see I just want to be alone?”

“Sorry. But you’re not the only one who’s upset about this.”

“I’m the one he wrote the note to. I’m the one who found him. I’m the one who was too late. I feel like I should have done more.”

“There’s nothing you could have done.” Ashton pauses for a bit. “The funeral’s on Thursday.” It’s Tuesday. Two days. In two days you’ll say good-bye to Michael forever.

You start to cry again. “Go home, Ashton. I want to be alone. I’ll see you on Thursday.”

You sit in that same spot for hours, staring at the wall. You finally get up and go to the kitchen, getting a drink of water, then go to bed. You stay in bed all day Wednesday, then on Thursday morning you have to get up and get dressed.

You arrive at the funeral early, and walk up to the casket. You look inside to see Michael looking just as he had at the hospital. Cold and still, lifeless, and it hurts just as much as the first time you saw him like this. You lean down and press a last kiss to his lips. “I’m so sorry, baby,” you whisper. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice you were hurting like that. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop you. God, I love you so much. I don’t know how I’m going to go on without you. Dammit, Michael, why didn’t you tell me you were thinking about hurting yourself?! I would have done something! And now you’re gone. You’re everything to me, and now I don’t even have a chance to tell you I love you one last time. Why did you leave me like this? I love you.” You gently pet his hair, careful not to mess it up, and kiss his forehead, then go to your seat.

You sit through the funeral without paying much attention. You just cry, mostly. People offer you condolences, and you just sit there silently. The ride to the cemetery where he’ll be buried is probably the worst part. It just kind of hits you all at once that you’re never going to see him again. He’ll be six feet underground, buried in a grave.

You sit at the grave long after everyone has gone, after the hole’s been filled in and the grass seeds sown on top. The tombstone’s not there yet; it’s being made. You lie on top of the grave, looking up at the blue sky. The weather’s warm, and the clear sky seems to be mocking you. You stay there for maybe two or three hours, then you go home.

The tombstone gets placed two days later. You visit his grave every day, sitting there and staring at the tombstone, talking to Michael. You still don’t understand why he left you. Why he felt like he had to kill himself. Why he didn’t say something. You still somewhat blame yourself. You think you’ll probably always blame yourself, honestly.

You can’t listen to music anymore. It seems like every song reminds you of him in some way. And of course 5 Seconds of Summer is the worst. Hearing his voice, knowing you’ll never hear him sing again...you can’t deal with it. You talk to the boys sometimes. They’re coping. You’re not. Even Karen seems to have gotten over it, or at least she’s coping.

You don’t think you’ll ever get over it. You love him so much, even though he’s gone. You don’t think you’ll ever move on. You’ll always have a part of your heart buried under that tombstone.


End file.
